My name is Christine, and I have loved Santa Claus with all my heart for as long as I have known about him, which was before I could speak. His love for all, rich or poor, old and young, warmed my heart and set an example for my life.

One of my first sentences was, “I want to marry Santa.”

My father would shake his head and say, “Santa already has a wife, Mrs. Claus.”

I shook my head emphatically, “No he doesn’t. But he needs one.”

I knew this without a doubt. It was something I knew in my soul.

Santa was a toymaker, so to emulate him, I read on how to make toys, from books in the library. Even before kindergarten, I was making simple toys for other children in my neighborhood. I lived in a very poor area of a large city. Any crude toy was appreciated by my friends.

As I got older, my craftsmanship improved. I built yoyos, racecars, stuffed dolls, and wooden menageries.

My birthday was on December twenty-fifth; and starting the eve of my fifth birthday, I would wait up for Santa. But I never made it. I would be asleep on the sofa when he arrived. I could swear that in my dreams I could hear hooves on the roof and jingle bells in our tiny living room. I felt a hairy kiss on my cheek that night.

The next morning, I woke to find both a Christmas and birthday gift from Santa. It was always something I really wanted or needed. It was also something my poor parents could not afford.

This stymied my mom and dad. They had never really believed in Santa, but they came to accept that someone was being Santa to me each Christmas morning.

As I got older, all my friends stopped believing in Santa, but not me. I kept my belief secret from my friends. They would just tease me and spoil my faith.

When I was eleven, I went through puberty. My mother sat me down and spelled out the “Facts of Life”. I learned how babies were made. The only man I wanted to be my mate was Santa.

While other girls were dating boys, I kept to myself, making toys. I would fantasize about the big man taking my virginity under the small Christmas tree my father scraped together to buy each year. I would come so hard, I had to bury my face in my pillow, so my parents would not hear.

On Christmas Eve, I would drink coffee, to stay up and see Santa. But it didn’t help. I still fell asleep before he arrived. I realized that Santa was not ready to see me yet. I had to trust that he would let me see him when he was ready.

On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, I kept my usual vigil in the living room. I always decorated it extra special, with ornaments I had made, decorating the tree, and a dozen holly-scented candles illuminating the small room. I did not try any of the tricks to stay awake that I had before. I was content to wait until Santa was ready.

That night I felt a special excitement. “Was this the night?” I thought.

A little after midnight, I heard the faint sound of jingle bells getting louder and louder. Then the sound of many hooves on the roof reached my ears, followed by the loud whomp of two runners landing over me.

My heart raced, finally, I was going to meet the man I had dreamed about all these years. I panicked. Did I look good enough? Should I put on some cologne or make-up? Then I remembered that this was Santa. He did not care what you looked like, just the content of your character.

I heard heavy footsteps overhead, walking toward the chimney.

There was a loud gust of air coming out of the fireplace. Soot got in my eyes, causing me to blink and rub my eyes.

When I opened my eyes, he was standing in front of me, Santa Claus.

He seemed to tower over me, making me feel small, though I was not extraordinarily short for a girl. He wore the suit that you always saw him pictured, in a red, fur-lined suit, black boots and belt, and a red hat, which he had already removed. He had a full white beard that cascaded down his chest in snowy ringlets.

At first, I was speechless. Finally, I whispered “It’s really you.”

He burst out laughing, “Ho ho ho, of course it is me.”

His laugh was contagious. I laughed with him. That helped break the tension.

I had been practicing what I would say for years. “You know me, Santa. You know what is in my heart.”

He nodded, “You love me, and want to be my wife.”

“You know I am a good girl. I am always doing good for others.”

“I know that. I know your heart. It is what is inside that I love.”

I unbuttoned the front of my nightgown and let it fall to my feet. I stepped out of the wreath it made around my feet, nude. “Could also love my outside?” I asked.